Class TS s^^^ 

COFlfRIGlir D&posm 




Songs of 
THE Soil 




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Page Three 



Copyright 1922 

by 

Howard M. Railsback 






Songs 0/ 
THE Soil 



A small sheaf of verse 

from the field 
where poetry is lived, 

by 
Howard M. Railsback 




'I have lawns, I have bowers 
I have fruits, I have flowers. 
The lark is my morning charmer; 
So you jolly dogs now, 
Here's God bless the plow — 
Long life and content to the farmer." 

— Rhyme on an old pitcher of English pottery. 






Page Five 



TO MY MOTHER 

WHO, LIKE YOURS, IS THE BEST 
MOTHER IN THE WORLD, AND FROM 
WHOM HER SON ALWAYS RECEIVED 
INSPIRATION IN THE THOUGHT 
THAT, NO MATTER HOW COMMON- 
PLACE WERE THE PRODUCTIONS 
FROM HIS PEN, THEY WOULD AL- 
WAYS FIND FAVOR IN HER EYES. 
THIS LITTLE BOOKLET IS 
AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATED. 



Page Seven 



FOREWORD 

The author has no illusions regarding 
this little volume of verse. He does not 
bare his brow in expectancy of the laurel 
wreath. There has been no constant 
attempt to conform strictly to the rules 
of formal literary art. Rather, he has 
made of the writing a diversion — a relief 
now and then from the prosaic in every- 
day duties; a happy recess such as the 
farm boy enjoys when a heavy summer 
rain interrupts the work-a-day program 
and sends him with rod and bait down to 
where the fish are waiting. This diver- 
sion has been made all the more enjoyable 
because of the many cordial letters that 
have come from readers of these poems 
since they began to appear in THE 
FURROW and elsewhere; and if, through 
their publication in this little book, others 
perchance find the simple heart interest 
which those readers have apparently 
enjoyed, the author will regard his avo- 
cation as a writer of verse well worth 

while. 

Howard M. Railsback 

Moline, Illinois, 
Nov. 24, 1922 



Page Nine 




■»W>^ii^*»)(t*>*^><!H{. 



CONTENTS 
Part I. Songs of the Soil 

Page 

The Plugger 15 

The Sticker 17 

Retired 19 

The Voice of the Farm 21 

Time Tells 23 

The Stay-at-Home 25 

Our Old Swimmin' Hole 27 

Work and Live — Today 29 

Contentment 31 

The Fighter 33 

The Old Home Town 35 

Slippin' 37 

The Optimist , 39 

Part II. The Farmer of Tomorrow 

Pards. 43 

Milkin' Time on a Frosty Morn 45 

The Reward 47 

The Convert 49 

Paternalism 51 

Part III. ''The Second Line'' 

Defenders of the Second Line 55 

His Bit 57 

The Farmer Patriot 59 

His Neighbor's Son 61 

His Prayer 63 

The Call 65 

The Home-Coming 67 

Part IV. Miscellaneous 

Life's Evening 71 

The Old Songs 73 

The Sideline Patriot 75 

The Insult 77 

The New Year 79 



Page Eleven 



Parti 



SONGS OF THE SOIL 



Page Thirteen 



The Plugger 



Page Fourteen 





He warn't very strong on book lar- 
nin' stuff, 

'N Greek — it war sure Greek to him. 

But he read all he could about farm- 
in' and sich, 

Tho' his source of knowledge war 
slim — 

'N the neighbors 'ud say, in a light 

sort of way, 
"He's a plugger." 

'N when a dry spell 'ud burn up his 

corn, 
Er frost 'ud play heck with his crop; 

'N the cholera 'ud take off a few fat- 
tened shoats. 

He'd plug, 'n his jaw'd never drop — 

'N the neighbors who'd quit, kinder 
perked up a bit 

At the plugger. 

By pluggin' he's managed to 'mass 

quite a lot 
Of farm lands and blue-blooded 

stock; 
His note's good as gold — 'n so is his 

word. 
He's got nothin' lyin' in hock — 
'N the neighbors — somehow, they 

take counsel right now 
From th' plugger. 

I reckon as how when harvest time 

comes, 
'N he cashes in — so to speak. 
There'll be a big halo awaitin' fer 

him 
Upon t'other side of the creek — 
'N Peter will say, in a proud sort of 

way, 
'Pass the plugger." 




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Page Fifteen 



The Sticker 




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Sometimes, when I get restless-like, 
'N sorter want to break away 

From farmin' — 'n I'd like to hike 
To where the lights are bumin' — 
say — 

I jest set down an' figger. 

O' course, th' lights ain't shinin' 
bright 
Out here — but when th' work is 
done. 
There's lots of comfort from th' light 
Of the old moon — an' settin' sun — 
If you j est stop to figger. 

The air is purer, too — an' smells 
Somehow — well, jest as tho' th' 
breeze 
Had filtered thro' th' brooks an' dells, 
'N new mown hay 'n buddin' 
trees — 
When you jest stop to figger. 

'N then there's growin' crops to till, 
*N stock that must be tended to; 

There's little time fer settin' still 
'N mopin' 'round 'n gettin' blue — 

When you jest stop to figger. 

There ain't no doubt but happiness 
Is 'bout th' biggest thing worth 
while 

On this old earth — 'n so I guess 
'Fore leavin' home, it's worth a 

To jest set down an' figger. 





Page Seventeen 



Retired 



Page Eighteen 




We're goin' back to farmin', 

My wife, 'n me, 'n Bill — 

We're plumb wore out with loafin' — 

Fagged out, jest settin' still. 

Our place is fixed up farmlike, 
We've pig pen, bees, — but shucks! 
It crowds things — and the neighbors 
Can't see much use fer ducks. 

We're up at dawn of mornin', 
Jest like we was at home, 
'N do the chores — then somehow 
Our thoughts begin to roam — 

'N Bill gets sorter restless, 
'N paws the boarded floor; 
He's always gazin' homeward. 
From out the stable door. 

The town is made, I reckon, 
Fer them that wants to rest. 
Fer them that's used to workin', 
Plain farmin' life's the best. 

We're goin' back to farmin', 

My wife, 'n me, 'n Bill — 

We're plumb wore out with loafin' — 

Fagged out, jest settin' still. 




'■r'^^y^^^^-*'^^^^ 



Page Nineteen 



The Voice of the 
Farm 



Page Twenty 



1^ 



When the big, strong Voice of the 

City calls, 
'Till it roars in your ears — and the 

Lights' brilliant glare 
Sorter dazzles your eyes — and the 

farmin' work palls — 
Well, you hardly can wait 'till you've 

landed there — 
When you're leavin' home. 

But the charm soon goes — and your 

thoughts turn back 
To the big-hearted folks and the old, 

home-like place, 
*N you realize times on the farm ain't 

so slack, 
*N they're not cuttin' down just to 

keep up the pace — 
When you hear from home. 

So you think you'll go back — and you 

pack your grip, 
'N you try to rub out the bright shine 

on your coat, 
But you find you haven't the price of 

the trip, 
'N a big, throbbin' lump rushes up in 

your throat — 
When you can't get home. 

Then the big, strong Voice of the City 

seems 
A great hollow echo, delusion and 

snare — 
'N you're sick of it all — and you lie 

down to dreams 
Of the joys of the folks and the hap- 

t piness there — • 
When you'll get back home. 




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Time Tells 



Page Twenty-two 



When the youngster is presented 
With tin soldiers, brightly painted, 
His ardour for his old toys quickly 
cools. 
But long ere the colors vanish 
He discards them — and gets clannish 
With his faded old rag doll or string 
of spools. 

Lo, again — the New Girl enters — 
Seeing her, the school boy canters 
Home, and smoothes his hair be- 
fore the glass. 
But the novelty soon fading. 
You will find the youth parading 
With the girl next door — his play- 
mate, neighbor lass. 
****** 

So it is with home-town spirit — 
Though sometimes we spurn it, jeer it 
When the Voices of the City loudly 

call. 
Comes the day when Truth will show 

us 
That the home-town folks, who know 

us 
With that old-time friendliness, are 

best of all. 




Page Twenty-three 



The Stay-at-Home 



: Twenty-four 




It's a part of nature, human, 
To be always frettin', fumin', 

And to want to wander hither, yon 
and thence. 
And most every youthful feller, 
Like the cow, is prone to beller 
For the grass that grows on t'other 
side the fence. 

But when all is said and over, 
It's the sweetest, juiciest clover 
That's most times found right under 
one's own shoe; 
And the thing now most regretted 
By the folks who've fumed and fret- 
ted 
And migrated, is their lack of vision 
true. 

Yet some chronic rainbow chasers — 
Unsuccessful nation pacers — 

Brand the Stay-at-Home's success 
as simply luck; 
But regardless of the kicker's 
Diagnosis — every sticker's 

Pot of gold is due to good old-fash- 
ioned pluck. 




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Page Twenty-five 



Our Old Swimmin* 
Hole 



Page Twenty-six 





You folks that has your beaches. 
Your seasides or your lakes, 
I often wonder, somehow. 
If us plain country jakes 
Aint had the fun you're seekin', 
Tho* you would think it droll — 
Well, leastwise we was happy, 
At our old swimmin' hole. 

The sand that formed our shore line 
Was mostly muck and clay ; 
The water sometimes muddy 
'N roiled a bit — but, say. 
We had the champeen swimmers, 
'N divers, too — my soul — 
We had most every thriller 
At our old swimmin' hole. 

"How deep's she, Jim?" you'd holler 
To him who first jumped in. 
He'd let down 'till the water 
Would ripple 'round his chin, 
*N hold his nose — then sinkin', 
Jest like a lump o' coal, 
"Sodeep — blub, bhib" — he'd answer; 
At our eld swimmin' hole. 

You folks that has your beaches, 
Your seasides or your lakes, 
I often wonder, somehow. 
If us plain country jakes 
Aint had the fun you're seekin', 
Tho' you would think it droll — 
Well, leastwise we was happy 
At our old swimmin' hole. 



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Work and Live- 
Today 



Page Twenty-eight 






The man of whom I tire. 
One who rouses all my ire 

And makes me want my varnished 
desk to gnaw. 
Is the fellow who's complaining 
All the time — or else explaining 
That his job's the "hardest one you 
ever saw," 

At more work he's always balking 
And eternally is talking 

Of the time when he'll retire, with- 
draw, or quit 
And enjoy himself — forgetting 
That the man who's always fretting 
O'er the present, finds the future a 
misfit. 

Don't forget — it's NOW we're living 
And the service that we're giving 
Is brimful of pleasures soon forever 
gone. 
There is work to do — and pleasure 
To enjoy — don't wait for leisure 
And retire — much better die with 
harness on. 







Page Twenty-nine 



Contentment 



Page Thirty 





When all the farm work's over 
When ends the Autumn day, 
'N when the milkin's finished 
'N stock is fed — well, say. 
The feelin' leaves a feller 
That's urgin' him to rove. 
While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
A-gassin' — by the stove. 

The outside air is coolish 
'N kinder sharp — but pshaw! 
Indoors the kettle's hummin' — 
Your heart jest starts to thaw, 
'N warms up with the spirit 
Inside the homelike cove; 
While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
A-gassin' — by the stove. 

The sizzlin' food that's cookin' 
Has got a sweeter smell; 
The woodbox in the corner 
Where chirpin* crickets dwell, 
Gives up its woodsy odor. 
The fragrance of the grove. 
When sittin' 'round the kitchen 
A-gassin' — by the stove. 

There's mighty little worry 
To make a feller gray. 
The spirit of contentment 
Jest fills the house, someway; 
'N everybody's happy. 
The real home ties are wove, 
While sittin' 'round the kitchen 
A-gassin* — by the stove. 



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Page Thirty-one 



The Fighter 



Page Thirty-two 



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From him who is disgusted 

With livin' on the farm. 
From him who says he's busted 

And who, with false alarm. 
Gives voice to steady wailin' 

Damns things that are today — 
For sake of better sailin' 

Let's bolt — and "make some hay.' 

No bread line's on our eighty. 

No kitchen dolin' soup, 
No hunger problems weighty. 

No starvin', wide-eyed group 
Awaitin' blasts that summon — 

(The fact'ry whistle-call) 
When wheels will start a-hummin', 

And furnish work for all. 

The world e'er will be needin' 

The products of our soil. 
Demand will be exceedin' 

The yield, soon, of our toil. 
There can't be any reapin' 

Unless some sowin's done — 
By fightin' — not by weepin'. 

The battle's always won. 





Page Thirty-three 



The Old Home Town 



Page Thirty-four 




'Fore we leave it for the city, 
With a feelin' 'kin to pity 

We deplore its faults and cuss it up 
and down; 
And we wonder how we ever. 
When its ties we come to sever, 
E'er existed for so long in our home 
town. 

But the bright lights, gaily shinin' 
Soon do pall — 'n' then we're pinin' 
For a whole-souled smile instead of 
offish frown. 
And it's then there comes a-stealin' 
O'er our homesick hearts the feelin' — 
God's real folks always lived in our 
home town. 




Page Thirty-five 



SLIPPIN' 



Page Thirty-six 



When I see some feller slippin' 
With his clutch not zackly grippin'. 
And his field crops lookin' sickly — 

I feel sorry for him then. 
And I would, as brother older. 
Like to pat him on the shoulder 
And say, "Buck up old feller — 

Suppose you try again." 

For there's seldom any people 
Who ever reach the steeple. 
Or acme of achievement. 

Without a slip or fall. 
When it comes to trip or tumble, 
The things that never stumble 
On this old earth — I reckon 

A worm and snake's 'bout all. 



It never pays a feller 

To give up, bleat or beller. 

When things don't go to suit him — 

That'sthetimetopullMp-stream. 
For the man who works the lever 
Or the throttle, doesn't ever. 
When he runs onto an up-grade. 

Slow down, or shut off steam. 







Page Thirty-seven 



The Optimist 



Page Thirty-eight 





There's heaps of floatin' bubbles 

Upon the sea of troubles, 

That seem to loom up bigger than 

the rest; 
But don't give up, disgusted. 
You'll find they're quickly busted, 
By wadin* in to do your level best. 

If cholera, with the chickens. 
Has played the very dickens. 
Things seem to be a-goin' to the 

dogs — 
There's lots of satisfaction, 
A comfortin' reaction. 
To know the same disease ain't 

touched the hogs. 

The wheat you are a-threshin'. 

By flies, the genus Hessian, 

May have been stung, until it looks 

forlorn ; 
But what's the use of worry? 
Forget it in a hurry. 
You'll maybe get a bumper crop of 

corn. 

When failure starts to beckon. 

It always pays, I reckon. 

To shut your eyes, 'n ears 'n forge 

right by; 
The world's no use fer yellow, 
But stands behind the fellow 
Who comes up smilin', always game 

to try. 




^y\' . 







Page Thirty-nine 



Part II 



THE FARMER OF 
TOMORROW 



Page Forty-one 



Pards 



Page Forty-two 





We hardly ever disagree 

On how to run the place, 

'N when I get to be a man, 

I'll have a farm like dad, and plan 

To beat his pace. 

You see we're pardners, me and dad, 
And tho' he says I'm just a lad, 
He don't treat me as one; 
He lets me in on his affairs, 
I'll bet the city millionaires 
Don't have more fun. 

He gave to me a calf and pig. 
And later on, when they get big, 
I'll take them in to sell; 
And with the money that they bring, 
I'll maybe buy out dad next sprmg — 
It's hard to tell. 

Just why a feller likes to roam. 
And leave the farm, his folks and 

home. 
Can sometimes well be seen; 
He ain't a pard — he's just a hand. 
And has to work to beat the band — 
A farm machine. 





,i 



Page Forty-three 



MiLKiN' Time on a 
Frosty Morn 



Page Forty-foiir 









The sheep bell's tinkle on 

morn, 
'N the lonesome bark of a dog forlorn, 
'N many otherearly sounds one hears — 
They're not much joy to a feller's 

ears 
When he has to milk the cows. 

I wonder if the poet who wrote the 

lines 
'Bout the com — and frost on the pun- 
kin vines — 
Ever woke up, contented until 
He saw the frost 'round the window 

sill— 
'N he had to milk the cows. 

Did he, I wonder, watch his steam- 
in' nose 

In a frosty room — 'n most of his 
clothes 

Seemed to be strewn all over the 
floor, 

Knees and teeth seein* which one 
could rattle more — 

When he had to milk the cows. 

But then I reckon that it aint so bad; 
For partnership with a feller's dad 
Means helpin' out with work when 

he can — 
He's goin' through things that make 

him a man. 
When he has to milk the cows. 



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Page Forty-five 



The Reward 



Page Forty-six 




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There's lots o' work fer fellers 
'Bout my age, on the farm; 

There's calves to feed — 'n chickens — 
'N when it's gettin' warm 
'N things is started growin* 
'N gettin' green — somehow — 

It always seems to me like 

There's scads of miles to plow. 

The team — they get the fever, 
'N loaf along the way; 

Th' squeakin' tugs 'n collars 

They sing a drowsy lay. 

It's hard to keep a-goin' 
'N plow — my feet they drag 
'N trip on clods — 'n stumble, 
'N things jest seem to lag. 
* * * * 

But gee — 'long near the ev'nin' 

My spirits start to rise. 

My heart begins a-throbbin'. 

My thoughts are in the skies. 

The furrows that I'm plowin' 

Don't seem to be so far — 
'Cause we'll all go a-ridin' 

In our new tourin' car. 



Page Forty-seven 



The Convert 



Page Forty-eight 




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In early spring, when everything 

Was bloomin' all around; 
'N in the fall, when leaves 'n all 

Lay scattered on the ground ; 
We'd hitch the team.'n it would seem 

We always had a load 
When goin' to town — we'd mire down, 

'Fore father dragged the road. 

Our neighbor said with waggin' head 

That father was a chump; 
He was content, when city-bent. 

Along the road to bump; 
He couldn't see why father he 

Cared how his horses blowed 
While haulin' grain thru mud and 
rain — 

When father dragged the road. 

But now the drag has stopped the wag 
Of neighbor's head — he's went 

An' has appraised his land and raised 
The price 'bout ten per cent; 

Without a jar, or bump, his car 
Spins 'long by our abode 

At sixty miles — he nods and smiles — 
Since father dragged the road. 




Page Forty-nine 



Paternalism 



Page Fifty 




We're all the time a-winking 

At the boy who keeps a-thinking 
That he knows just how the farm 
work should be done: 
When he bucks up and does men- 
tion 
Hia views — with condescension 
We smile paternally, "It can't be 
done." 

Then back he goes disgusted 

Over good intent mistrusted. 
Hope's seasons quickly change from 
spring to fall 
When one's views are not invited. 
And, when offered, always blighted 
By an unreceptive "dad," who 
knows it all. 

In narrow ways of dealing 

With our work, we get the feeling 
By someone else our work cannot be 
done. 
We're like the rooster, knowing. 
Who thinks it is his crowing 

That brings about the rising of the 
sun. 



/ 7 / 
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Page Fifty-one 



Part III 



"THE SECOND LINE" 



Page Fifty-three 



Defenders of the 
Second Line 



Page Fifty-four 




4 



Plod on 

Old faithful team — 

Each step you take adown the field 

Removes a nation just one step 

From tyranny's control — the yield 

Of crops that follows in your wake, 

A nation's freedom helps to make — 

Old faithful team, 

Plod on. 

Turn on 

Old faithful plow — 
Inanimate — yet what import 
Your work is to a nation's life 
And liberty! You build the fort 
Of food defense, while urgently 
The furrow whispers — anxiously — 
"Old faithful plow, 
Turn on." 

Toil on 

Son of the soil — 

With steady stride — with singing 

heart 
From morn's pale light till setting 

sun — 
A privilege thus to do your part. 
Grudge not the perspiration's flow; 
'Tis part of freedom's debt you owe — 
Son of the soil, 
Toil on. 




Page Fifty-five 



His Bit 



Page Fifty-six 




When winter winds are blowin' 
When it's rainin', sleetin*, snowin', 
*N shiverin' cattle turn tail to the 

storm; 
There's a sort of a relievin', 
Satisfyin', cozy feelin' 
When you're sittin' 'round the fire 

where it's warm. 

'N your thoughtsturntothe trenches, 
Where there are no chairs — nor 

benches 
Invitin'-like, placed 'round a crack- 

lin' fire; 
From your comfort comes a feelin' 
Of selfishness — the ceilin' 
Out there is sky — 'n carpets, mud 

and mire. 

So your eyes begin a-blinkin' 

As you sit there, thinkin', thinkin'. 

And you wonder how you're goin' 

to do your bit — 
N your heart begins a-singin' 
As the words come to you ringin' 
"It's food the fellows need — and lots 

of it." 






.^ 




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Page Fifty-seven 



The Farmer Patriot 



Page Fifty-eight 





all our fighting 



We've marshalled 

force 

Out on the farm — we don't, of course, 
Mean that we'll fight with sword and 

gun, 
But, say, they'll know when we are 

done 
That swords aren't all there is to war, 
That powder can't go very far 

Unless food gives it might. 

Our folks have put in every bit 
Of land they can in crops — and it 
Shows that to get a whopping yield 
You've got to study every field. 
And use the best of implements. 
And with the soil mix common sense, 
To make your crops grow right. 

We've drafted all the latest tools 
Into our service — now the mules 
And horses gaze from pastures green 
At tractor plows, by gasolene 
And kerosene machines propelled ; 
Theirchugsandsputteringsareswelled 
Into a mighty song. 

New farm machines now bear the 

brunt 
Of work of farm hands at the front. 
The women folks, to do their bit. 
Are canning stuff — and lots of it. 
So thus you see, we're organized 
To do our part — we're mobilized — 

Two hundred acres strong. 



4 



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Page Fifty-nine 



His NEIGHBOR'S Son 



Page Sixty 



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He's over there — my neighbor's son — 

And in a letter that he writes. 
He reckons, that, to beat the Hun, 

The man who carries on and fights. 
Has got to have the best of feed, 

And plenty of it — and his dad 
Wrote back, to meet the foodstuff 
need 

He'd farm more acres than he had 
Before — "Go to it, son of mine — 

I'll back you on the Second Line." 

My neighbor's son is there and — well. 

There's lots of other fellers' sons 
A-fightin* like the very hell, 

A-facin* damp and death and guns ; 
And if a little harder work, 

An extra hour or so per day, 
On my part helps to win, I'll shirk 

Not — but will try to pay 
The debt that Freedom asks of me, 

With work — with crops — with 
loyalty. 





Page Sixty-one 



His Prayer 



Page Sixty-two 





'Tis very little that I ask. 

That I may better fitted be 
To carry on and do the task 

My country's need demands of me. 
A task, I said — nay, privilege — 

This back-to-farming course of 
mine. 
To brand it else is sacrilege — 

In helping hold The Second Line. 

Grant only through the present strife 

My youthful strength return again ; 
The strength that from retired life 

And ease — of years a score and ten — 
Has given way to tender hands, 

To dormant muscles, tender, too. 
Return the things hard work de- 
mands 

To me until that work is through. 

My heart is singing at the chance 

To do my part — in other fields 
My son is doing his — in France. 

We'll glory in what teamwork 
yields. 
Oh, grant to me that one request, 

That I may better fitted be 
To carry on — accomplish best — 

The work my country asks of me. 









\ 



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Page Sixty three 



The Call 



Page Sixty-four 




i 

4v.. - 






WAR I 

And silent, plodding through it all. 

An army — grim sons of the soil — 
Responding to their country's call 

For increased food — with patient 
toil 
They labored — yet for plaudits fine 

They sought not — but upon them 
fell 
A world-rank which befits them well: 

"Defenders of the Second Line." 

PEACE ! 

And in its wake a rumbling cry 

From starving millions heavenward 
goes. 
Re-echoing in the Eastern sky: 
"O send us food" — e'en erstwhile 
foes 
Turn eagerly for faintest sign 

Of succor, toward the Western sun, 
* * * 

Your real task now has just begun, 
Knighta^rrant of the Second Line. 



4, 








Page Sixty-five 



The Home-Coming 



Page Sixty -six 




He's comJn' home — our only son — 

To maw an' me — we jest sit 'round 
A-waitin' for his happy shout 

A-tellin* us he's home — the sound 
Of footsteps on the old brick walk. 

Most alius gives us sudden starts, 
An' other sounds at eventide 

Find echoes in fast-beatin* hearts. 

Seems like 'twas only yesterday 

Since he was toddlin' o'er the floor; 
But since he went away to war, 

A million years have passed — and 
more. 
A million years? Yea, only folks 

Whose hearth lacks one, once al- 
ways there, 
Can live a million years in one — 

Such magic has a vacant chair. 

Somehow he'd alius been a kid — 

To us at least — before he went 
Away to war. Tho' he'd shot up 

By inches toward the firmament, 
To six feet one — yet all the while 

His dad forgot the time was due 
When son an' dad should be just pals — 

Close partners with one end in 
view. 

They say that lots of farmers' sons 

Won't be content to stay at home 
When back from war — but don't for- 
get: 
The boy who thinks he wants to 
roam 
And leave the farm, will be content. 
When dads make up for things un- 
done. 
Henceforth instead of "J. A. Jones," 
Our firm will read," J. Jones 86 Son." 







X" 




Page Sixty-seven 



Part IV 



B I I 



MISCELLANEOUS 



Page Sixty-nine 



LIFE'S Evening 



Page Seventy 



Somehow, when she's a-sittin' there, 
So quiet like in her old chair. 
And twilight falls, and everything 
Jest seems to hush — the crickets sing 
Their ev'ning song — I know that then 
She's livin* old times o'er again. 
— Jest 'bout this time o' year, I guess. 
When I asked her, and she said 

"Yes." 
And when I think how good and true 
She's been to me when things looked 

blue, 
Somehow my heart begins to pound; 
And when I put my arm around 
Her waist — and she looks up at me 
With that old smile, the one that she 
Gave me that night — somehow — 

well, say — 
It's mighty good to feel that way. 




Page Seventy-one 



The Old Songs 



Page Seventy-two 



1^ 



=^ 



When I hear somebody singing 

The songs of long ago, 
Comes a soothing, gentle feeling — 

Recollection's afterglow. 
'Mongst things long since forgotten, 

The fragrances that last, 
Are re-wakened by the singing 

Of the old songs of the past. 

All the twilight songs my mother 

Used to sing — the cradle hymn — 
When I hear them now, the heart beat 

Quickens — and the tears that swim 
In the old eyes, blur the present 

And I hear the thumped refrain. 
That we tired, sleepy children 

Beat upon the counterpane. 

Not by sight, but feeling, mem'ry 

Plays— and means life to the old; 
Things without her would be dreary. 

And the world be dull and cold. 
There's a mem'ry intertwining 

With the songs of long ago. 
That, playing near the heartstrings. 

Makes them prized and treasured so. 




Page Seventy-three 



The Sideline Patriot 



Page Seventy-four 



When trumpets blare, and in the air 

Old Glory stately waves; 
When from the crowd, the cheering 
loud 

He hears — a fight he craves. 
While tense he stands and sees the 
bands 

Go proudly marching by, 
He feels just then like all brave men, 

For country he could die. 

Hark! Bugle call! — the buttons all 

Go popping from his vest ; 
He, 'neath the sod, could put a squad 

Or regiment to rest. 
And in his dream, the eagle's scream 

Is music to his ears; 
The marching tars or regulars. 

They fill his eyes with tears. 

When Ladies Aid, or "suffs" parade, 

A patriotic thrill 
Shoots up his spine, and into line 

He falls — he can't keep still. 
In arguments about defense. 

He always takes a hand; 
"Three million men we need — and 
then 

More ships to guard our land." 

When you suggest he join the rest 
At army camp, and train, 

He says: "Good -night — I hate to 
fight; 
* * By George, it looks like rain." 




\K 




Page Seventy-five 



The Insult 



Page Seventy-six 



Justa wait — eet ees yet time enough, 
When I get square an' calla da bluff 
You mak' to me — my tite-wad frand, 
I no can hardly ondrastand — 
I tal you wat, eet mak' me seeck — 
Wat call you eet? — "A rummy 

treeck" — 
I nevva see Eetalian 
Dat ees so pincha, tita man. 
An' justa wait — some day maybe 
I'm reech — dan you'll look up to me. 
But now all time I work for deeg 
Da trench in ceety street — da peeg 
Has wot you call? "Nothin'on me." 
My face hees dirty as can be, 
An' sewer gas ees een my nose. 
An' steek all ovra all my clo'es — 
But wait — maybe some day I'm 

reech. 
W'en you'll be makin' ceety deetch. 
An' dan I'll come aroun' to you 
An' say: " *Lo ground-hog, how you 

do?" 
Dan you'll no have peanutta stan', 
Nor sella to me da banan. 
I bat you eef you go to hal 
You'll no feel worse — you no can tal 
How sorra you'll be, Dago jew, 
You bit dat neekel, I gave you. 





Page Seventy-seven 



The New Year 



Page Seventy-eight 




MMiliiiill/- 

Good friend, 

Another year has gone — and yet 

There isn't any use to fret 

Nor toss the hours till morning's sun, 

Perturbed by things that you have 

done 
And now regret; 



Because, 

Each.one of us in retrospect 

Can see where good intent was 

wrecked — 
Can feel the fretting smarts and 

stings 
Of penitence for sundry things 
We recollect. 



And say. 

Another year is soon begun. 
Suppose we greet the rising sun 
This New Year with a cheerful smile 
And try to make up for the pile 
Of things ttndone. 





Page Seventy-nine 



OESAUUNIERS ft ( 



